


apply it gently, to the love you've given me

by fruitwhirl



Series: peraltiago tumblr prompts [10]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, kiss prompts, meandering fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 02:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15500313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: When they’re lying in bed, watching a documentary about scorpions of all things—it actually didn’t take much convincing on his part, because, really, he’ll do anything to make Amy happy—he’ll lay his head against her chest, and she’ll be gently stroking his hair, her fingers working through the short tufts and every so often, in between the British narrator’s quips and images of the arachnids, she’ll brush her lips against his forehead, against his temples. It seems almost absent-minded, in a way, like this is her natural state: loving him, that is.(Loving her, he thinks, is his natural state.)





	apply it gently, to the love you've given me

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "only skin" by joanna newsom, but with "lent" changed to "given," here. 
> 
> barely edited and written at 2 am, but sy looked over this and the first thing she told me was that i "spelled nakatomi plaza as 'yakatomi'" so be ready.

Amy likes to kiss him.

And, frankly, Jake  _ really  _ likes that she likes to kiss him.

Whether it’s her frantically rushing into his arms while the sharp bite of the winter air nips at their skin, Amy’s lips like ice on his with her fists clutched at the collar of his leather jacket (her sigh of relief apparent, as well as her need for warmth, her hands slipping underneath his shirt), or it’s her palm cupping his cheek, thumb smoothing over the skin there as her breath is sweet, slow, mingling with his—she likes to kiss him, and it takes all of his energy to not eternally smile against her mouth, because she’ll nip at the edge of his bottom lip, pull away slightly and sigh, confused. But then she smiles too, her hands drifting down to hold his, which sounds cheesy and it  _ is  _ (sometimes, he makes fun of himself for it—for the dopey look in his eyes, for the way that his breath catches when she gazes up at him, soft, through her eyelashes—but then she strokes his thumb with hers, and he doesn’t give a shit about how much of a sap he is). 

But as much as he loves just straight up making out with her (even if it  _ did  _ at one point lead to a man dying), there’s something about the warmth that spreads throughout his chest when he’s sitting on top of the counter, and she’s standing in front of him, stirring cream into her coffee that she has in his favorite Nakatomi Plaza mug (he, of course, has multiples), and he can just lean down a little and press a quick kiss to her nose, and then to the confused furrow of her brow and the light, pleasant flush of her cheeks.  

When they’re lying in bed, watching a documentary about  _ scorpions  _ of all things—it actually didn’t take much convincing on his part, because, really, he’ll do anything to make Amy happy—he’ll lay his head against her chest, and she’ll be gently stroking his hair, her fingers working through the short tufts and every so often, in between the British narrator’s quips and images of the arachnids, she’ll brush her lips against his forehead, against his temples. It seems almost absent-minded, in a way, like this is her natural state: loving him, that is. 

(Loving her, he thinks, is  _ his  _ natural state.)

It’s hot and heavy against his neck, against her open chest, late at night while she’s pressed against their front door, their shoes thrown haphazardly across their living room, and it’s lingering and soft, slow, in the early morning when the sun just barely peeks through the blinds. It’s quick pecks down her arm, on her wrist, and it’s lips, faint, on her knuckles and her ring when their hands are clasped together, and she’s giggling at his dramatization of the actions. And, later— _ eventually _ —it’ll be the smile against the skin of her growing belly, and moving the hair out of her face to press his mouth, quick, against her sweat-drenched forehead as she tries for “shortest labor” at Brooklyn Methodist.

(She’ll miss it by sixteen minutes, but her frown will immediately dissipate once she’s holding their daughter in her arms, and he won’t be able to stop fucking grinning as he presses a long, hard kiss to the crown of her head.)

But that’s later, and now?

Now, they relish in the small moments they have together—short hellos during their even shorter breaks, when he turns his chin to kiss her palm, which rests on his cheek; sloppy trails down necks in the back of Shaw’s, collarbones stained red with her lipstick; and quick, faint pecks to fingertips, to their matching rings. 

**Author's Note:**

> a mess, super meandering, but let me know what you think. it's been a hot minute since i've written anything, so i just wanted to crank this out to (hopefully) get the wheels turning, since i have two au's in the works.


End file.
